


Breaking the Last Rule

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [45]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Death-Fic, M/M, Sad, Valinor, meet the parents, you were warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arriving in Valinor. And what happens there. What are the rules of the Undying Lands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the Last Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Fits in with my other stories, so slight reference to my own characters, (friend of Legolas, mother of Legolas, since Tolkien didn't name her), but it doesn't matter if you haven't read the others.

He is asleep when the keel of our boat, our boat which I showed him with such pride, which Caradhil had made for me – which I did eventually confess was not my doing – I cannot lie to my love for long, much though I would wish to have deserved his praise – when the keel of this boat grinds onto the sands of this shore. 

And, such are the wonders of aging, the noise, the jarring, does not wake him. Oh my warrior, how you have changed. And yet – you are still my world. You always will be.

I – I would like to say I leap, but I fear it is more of a scramble for in all the years of his dislike I have lost my skill with boats – into the water, and begin to haul this boat onto the beach – I will not have my poor love get wetter and colder than he need. Even this does not wake him, and for all my longing to see this land – I cannot leave his side. I nestle against him, still in the boat, enjoying his warmth, his sleeping embrace – for his arm comes round me to hold me close even though he is deeply unconscious, so long have we spent like this.

I listen to the sounds, the song of this new country. It is very lovely. I wonder again why I needed so to come here – I do not know. There is nothing particularly different, I find. I feel peaceful – but – in all honesty, no more than I ever do with him at my side.

Slightly less, as I begin to feel guilt at tearing him from his home for so little gain to me.

 

 

He wakes, and for a moment he just holds me, then he must realise the motion has ended,  
“Fucks sake, love, have we run aground, or are we in these blessed lands of yours?”

I turn and smile up into his face,  
“We have been here a while, melethron-nin. I did not wish to disturb my lord’s sleep. We will be here a while longer, there seemed no urgency.”

“Daft sodding elf,” but he pulls me closer still, and the words that might seem so harsh have not sounded so in my ears for – well over a century now. I do not know what I would feel were he to suddenly become polite and courtly – lost I suspect.

 

 

The days pass, we wander over this land. Slowly. No running now for my love. 

And I am in no hurry, I do not long to reach beyond the horizon, I do not wish to see sights far away. I wish only to be with him. 

This land is truly beautiful. I know it, though I find I cannot really see it. I wish only to look at him. I begin to understand this will not last long. I thought – I hoped – I – somewhere in my mind I believed that this land – this land is called Undying. I thought – perhaps – I dreamed – my love would be enough. I thought he might not die here. 

I was wrong. These lands – they are called undying because – because elves do not die here. And I could curse the blindness, stupidity of myself, of my people, that has made me so selfish. For it was selfish of me to bring him here. It has done him no good, made his life no better, no longer.

It has deprived him of his home, his family, his friends, his people – even his tomb. 

I have been selflish.

Again.

And he – he knew this, he understood. He tried to tell me, but I would not listen. And so he did this for me. With no complaint, no sighs, no hope of gain, he did this, he gave up all he knew. As he has always given me everything. Oh my warrior, my love, in this you are not changed.

I love you so.

When your time comes, I will follow you. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, I will find you again.

I have said it so many times, but this time, I do not need to say it. This time, it is not you I am promising, it is myself. I will not linger here, grieving, mourning, among elves I care for little. 

I will find you. 

And, I understand, if that means I am to spend the rest of eternity among dwarves, in the Halls of Aule, then so be it. I have said this before, but now, now I find I have a better understanding of what this will mean. 

Many, many years in the company of Thorin Oakenshield. 

And others, I tell myself, and others, some who know me not, some who love me as little as Thorin. Some who love me.

My warrior. My One, whose love does not change.

This land is truly beautiful. I try to see it, to share it with him, little though he has ever cared for such things. I try to hear the song of these trees, these plants, these hills and valleys. A song that is clearer here than anywhere we ever wandered before. A song so beautiful, so much, that I wonder how any elf could leave here – until I remember that I must. That there are things greater than song.

Trees such as I have not known before. Flowers more beautiful than I could imagine. Landscapes that go on before and around, that flow, that are untouched by the works of any, mortal or immortal.

But oh, the trees.

Will there be trees in the Halls of Aule, I wonder? And I put the thought aside. If it is where my love is, then it is where I should be. That is the truth of my heart, that has been the truth of my life all the years since I knew him.

Enjoy these trees now, I tell myself.

He laughs, gently, kindly, at me. No longer the scorn, the insults, the teasing. Oh my warrior, even in this you are changed.

Fruits there are in plenty, clear fresh water, fish to catch, game birds to bring down – and my love is ever skilled at fire-lighting. I have never known any so fast to build and light a fire, so able to set it to a cooking but not burning heat, to have it last the right time. Gloin-ada must have taught him well.

We see other elves – but – they keep their distance. I am not bothered, they will be mostly Noldor, or perhaps those stranger Teleri, I have nothing to say to them. I have nothing to say to any but my love.

I have much to say to him. Much of love, much of – nothing really. But – the joy of having him to myself, no work, no others around us, no duty. All his time, all his attention on me.

I suppose, were this a tale, there would be some final revelation, something that would change all the years before, for better or for worse. This is no tale, there is no change. Nothing will change my love for him, nor his for me.

I am a very foolish elf. Daft, in truth. Not to realise for so long, that all I really want is this. Him. Nothing else.

I suppose – had I loved an elf – there could have been years like this. Not merely the months that are left to us now. Had I loved an elf, perhaps he would have no more wished for work and duty than I. 

But – I loved my warrior, my dwarf, my Gimli. There could never have been another. There never was, in all those lonely years before we met, I never even dreamed there could be, never knew for what my heart so longed.

I wonder again why it was so necessary to come – and as I understand, I do not wish to explain it, I am grateful he does not ask, but – my heart is eased by being here, even though it is not truly this land that pleases, but the feeling of being loved, loved beyond all else. I am like a child, I realise. Selfish. All I want is him, him to look at me, to have nothing else to do, nothing else of which to think, and I know that only now, only in his age could he be content like this. He is a dwarf, he needed to work – and I never complained, never minded, it was part of him, part of who he was, like his pride, like his stubbornness, like his jealousy. It was another difference we had to learn to live with – I suspect my idleness distressed him more than his devotion to duty did me. After all, I must have spent hours sitting at his feet while he talked, planned, went through papers, his hand idly running through my hair, and I never minded so long as I could be close to him, so long as at the end of the day he would turn to me, and take me in his arms.

But – he used to get cross with me that I left everything in Ithilien to Caradhil. ‘It is your land, your kingdom’ he would say, ‘how can you let him do everything? Do you not care for your people at all?’ I did care, of course I did, but – I was in love. It ruled me. I am an elf, my heart rules me. 

Besides, Caradhil has always been a far better elf than I at such things. Always he has made decisions, seen what needs doing, planned. I – I was never even in charge of a patrol without him behind me, telling me what to do. Although – I preferred not to admit that to my love for many years – until it was clear he knew, and had learnt to accept me for the idle princeling I am.

So these days, these – I know not how to count them in this strange season-less land – these long days are perfect to me. And the nights – oh the nights – he holds me, he combs me, he lets me comb him, he kisses me and we touch, we are together, and as I trace his inkings, even after all these years, even when I know his body as well or better than my own, I still cannot really believe my good fortune that he cares for me, wants me, here, here in his arms, that I may touch him so – and if there is no more – it matters not. 

“I love you,” he says, “you are my beautiful perfect elf. I – I would please you still, if I could – oh if I could I would have you over and over – but – I am old. Yet – I would please you in other ways?”

But I know, I know, if I were to ask it would be to admit I miss what he can no longer give. And I will not hurt him.

“You please me by your love. I need nothing more,” I say, and as I see his disbelief, I repeat my words, “I need nothing but you. I – I am an elf. My body may not age, but – my – my golden time – my loving – my – I have not the words – my time for such things – is over. Hold me. That is all.” And as I feel him relax to hear me say it, to believe he does not fail me, I too can come to believe my words.

Besides, they are mostly true.

Oh my love, my warrior. You are my world. That does not change.

 

 

Inevitably, I suppose, this strange journey must end. We are sitting among a grove of birch, he sleeping, I listening to their song, when one approaches. I know him not at first, but he comes closer, speaks,

“Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion, Gimli son of Gloin,” and as he changes to Westron, I wonder if I do know his face – he sees my puzzlement, and, “I am Lindir, once minstrel in the House of Elrond. We thought – my Lord thought – the tidings we had heard must mean that you were here. I have been sent to welcome you, to ask if you would come down into my Lord’s valley? There are many you may know, Mithrandir among them,” He turns to me, and in Sindar adds, “and many comforts I think your lord might be glad of – at least for a time, even if you journey on again.”

I sigh, for he is right, and, I suppose, courteous in his speech. My love, my lord, has aged; this journeying is not fully to his liking, wonderful to me though this time has been. 

He is indeed aged. There are no complaints of elvish speech, no insult taken, he simply waits, looking at me, to hear either what was said, or my response. Oh my warrior, how you are changed. My love, my world.

“I thank you for your courtesy, Lindir,” I say, “we will indeed be glad to follow you and meet those we once knew.”

But something in me wonders – is this the end? Was that the last of all our wanderings together?

And my heart aches.

 

 

The valley is very lovely – as I suppose I should have expected – and if it is lovely in a – Noldor way, if it is too ordered, too – pretty – somewhat lacking in trees, in wilderness – well. I was not content in my Forest, and if my heart longs for the fair land of Ithilien, or the parts of this blessed realm more like to it – I have the wit not to say. My love would not be pleased to hear I miss anything that is Caradhil’s. 

He needs not be jealous – he has never needed to. But I am no fool, I know his dwarvish heart has ever wondered, and in these last years – for all he has tried not to feel it – he wonders more.

I do not let it wound me. He knows I am his, heart, body, and fea, he knows there has never been, will never be, another, he knows I have never loved Caradhil beyond friendship – it is just – sometimes – he wonders.

I do not know why. Caradhil has never felt that way for me. For anyone. I think – I think my love cannot accept that truth about one so – liberal, so – skilled with his comb.

Anyway. The valley is very lovely. The comforts Lindir spoke of are welcome, and the company – some of the company – is pleasant. Lindir himself is very kind, very gentle – and very glad to learn some different styles of music – apparently he knows little Silvan music, and as for the new styles my elves in Ithilien were beginning – that is very strange to him. He remembers Gloin-ada and the rest of that Company visiting the Last Homely House all those years ago, and although he has learnt of the halflings’ music, is also glad to hear more dwarven songs.

I am grateful to Lindir. He makes my love feel welcome for himself, not just for being my love.

I think in all my years, I have never come so close to being friends with an elf who is not Silvan. 

There are not many Silvans here. None in this valley, I find, and it saddens me to be so alone. At least, it would, had I not my love – with him, I am never alone. With him here, what matters it who else there is?

 

 

Most of the others in this valley are great lords, great ladies – I have nothing to say to them. I am no learned Noldor, no cunning Galadhrim, no properly stately Sindar. I have nothing to say even to the Lord Elrond. What could I say to him, I who brought my mortal love where no mortal should come, even though none waited here for me with affection in their hearts, while his beloved daughter is lost to him for the sake of her mortal husband?

I find I prefer to be alone, or with my love, or, occasionally, I sing with Lindir. 

Be honest, Legolas. I sing with Lindir when the Lady Galadriel comes to speak with my love. To call him lockbearer, to thank him for his constant admiration, to – I do not know. I do not wish to know, I do not wish to see. It seems that not only dwarves are jealous. I – I should be past this, I know it is a different admiration, chaste, courtly. I know – in my heart I know he is no object of desire to any but me, aged, white-haired, tired as he is – and never would have been to her. But. He is mine. My love, my only, my One. I am jealous and possessive as I ever was. My heart aches as it ever did, I burn at the very thought of him looking at her.

Knowing my unreasonableness, I try, I try so hard not to show my feelings. I am grateful to Lindir for keeping me occupied, for his gentle company. 

She does not come many times, and I wonder if my love has realised my pain, and if that is why. I suppose I should ask, should be generous. 

I cannot.

There is too short a time left, I cannot share him.

He is my world.

Mithrandir comes to speak with us, a little, and it is good to hear of the last days of Frodo, of Sam – good to be able to give him news of the lives of all those he was so fond of and left behind when he sailed.

We speak of Pippin, of Merry, of many dwarves, of Elessar, of other elves, of all races. We speak of my Forest, but we do not speak of Ada.

Time passes.

 

 

There is to be a feast – it is some kind of celebration. I am not quite sure what – some Noldor thing – but – Lindir invites us, and although I am tempted to refuse, I think I see something in my love’s face that makes me stop. I say instead that we will think about it. 

Lindir, and I thank the Valar for his gentle heart, does not ask further, and soon makes his excuses.

“Why do you want to go to such a thing?” I ask my love, I do not dress up the question – I have long learnt there is no point.

He sighs,  
“Because, my dear, daft elf, I do not have many days left in me. You had best – meet some elves other than Lindir. Just in case. I – I would not like to think you will be completely alone here when I am gone. However short the time.” 

But – I am not sure that is the whole reason. He has a certain look about him. 

 

 

The feast, it turns out, is pleasant enough. There is food, but it is – elven, I suppose, but – I remember feasts in the Forest that were more plentiful, more – solid – than this. There are no haunches of roast meat, no mountains of baked rolls, no sweet pastries. It is Noldor food, very – green.

There is wine – not very good wine, not very strong – it is Noldor wine. Light, fragrant, barely intoxicating even to mortals.

There is firelight. 

There are no glittering jewels in the firelight, beyond those few which such high Noldor wear daily. 

I thought there would not be. I did not dare wear my jewels in such company, beyond those I never leave off, and it saddened me, for I know my love likes to see me in his gifts.

There is no dancing at this feast. Not even such slow and careful dancing as the Noldor sometimes allow themselves. 

Even the talk seems very serious, very learned, very – Noldor. There is no shouting, no wild laughter, no teasing. I miss the dwarf humour, the Silvan antics of our peoples.

I miss my Silvans more now than at any other time in these lands. 

This feast does not feel very joyful to me.

There is music. 

I understand why Lindir wanted us to come. He has used what we have taught him. He has learnt our songs.

I look at my love, and I see the tears in his eyes as they are in mine, that when we are gone, our songs will stay here, be learnt, by these unchanging elves. I hold his hand, and I know – I know there is not long now, but I care not.

Why would I care? I will be with him – and he is my world. Nothing else, no-one else has ever mattered since I met him.

 

 

The feast goes on. I am weary of it, my love is weary, I suspect he sleeps, but – we do not wish to hurt Lindir’s feelings, so we stay. We stay until others begin to leave, and then we too, we two, slip away. As we have slipped away from so many feasts, in Gondor, in Aglarond, in Rohan, in Ithilien, in Erebor. 

Only – now, now my love is content to listen to me sing to the stars, to comb me, to be combed by me, to sleep, his arms around me. Now those days of gasping urgent needing, those nights of longing, of pleasure – those feelings he taught me – now they are a memory. A sweet, golden memory. Oh my warrior, how you have changed. You who are still my world. 

 

 

It is late morning the next day when they come to find us. Poor Lindir is leading, and I can see he is a reluctant guide. 

“As I told you,” he says, “they are here, but – I will intrude no longer, my lady.” And he makes to go, but the elf with him holds her hand out to him,

“No,” she says, “by your courtesy master Lindir, stay. For I would have you keep this – dwarf – company, while I speak to – to Thranduilion.”

Lindir, it is clear, has spent time enough with us to predict how this will go. He begins to back away,  
“No, indeed, my lady, I think you would be best to speak to both. I –“ 

She cuts him off,  
“Minstrel, when I need your advice I will ask for it,” she says, and I am still looking at her, still wondering if I have met her before, so almost familiar her face, her voice seem, as she continues, “do not tell me how to deal with my own. I am Sindar, I am royal, I need no singer’s guidance in these matters.”

My love is looking at me, but for once in my life, I am not looking at him. He may busy himself in his pipe, he may do as he chooses. This – this is, I think, a moment I wondered about for many, many years. And then forgot I once needed.

As I forgot everything for my love.

I stand, I look into the face I now see is so like my brothers’. Save for her green eyes.

So like them – and – so cold. So very cold.

Cold as they were.

Cold as Ada.

Cold as any Sindar. 

And I wonder – is that what I would be, were I without my love?

She looks at me, and I wait. 

I have waited long.

As we stand, looking at one another, I remember all those years, those years in my Forest, those years when I wondered where she was, what she looked like, what she sounded like, what – what manner of person she was. Why she left. What I had done. How I had failed. How I had hurt her, driven her away. 

I remember all the years – less of them – but – more important, more precious to me – when I did not care.

I raise my brow, I wait for her to speak.

“You are Legolas Thranduilion, prince of Mirkwood?” she asks, as though there can be any doubt in her mind, and I realise she uses Sindarin, as though to shut my love out.

“I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, once prince of Mirkwood, then prince of Eryn Lasgalen, then ruler of Ithilien, consort of Aglarond, now – now, and for many years, beloved of Gimli son of Gloin,” I answer, using Westron, as I almost always do. Poor Ada, I am moved to think. She does not even know our Forest is green and safe once more. Poor lonely Ada. A strange thought, I never dreamed I could think such a thing.

She raises her brows a little at this. Why do you think I brought him here, I wonder. What other reason could I have?

“I saw you at the feast,” she begins, in Sindarin again, and I shake my head, and make as if to turn away. She stops and speaks in Westron, and I realise she is not comfortable with the language. Strange. I had forgot that once I knew it only a little, so long has it been even in the Forest that all must be fluent. “I saw you at the feast,” she repeats, and I begin to realise why my love was so insistent that we go, “I – had heard something – and then to see you – I am – your mother. I – I am glad to be with you at last,” she says, but – something in my gaze must warn her that this is not going as she expected, “I am your Naneth, Legolas. I have missed you so.”

I shake my head.  
“No. Naneth died – a hundred years ago,” and I remember that dear, loving dwarrowdam, who took me to her heart, who would feed me endlessly, fuss over me, listen to me, tell me of my beloved’s childhood, scold me when I was overly sentimental, overly inclined to believe all infants innocent, all children in need of nothing but unquestioning affection. I remember her warmth, her loving kindness, her humour, her pride, so like her that of her husband and son, her intelligence that was quicker even than Droin to solve a problem, her anger when she thought us foolish, her skill in her work. I remember how that skill, that pride, that strength kept her watching over her son for so many years after her husband died, and I touch the last filigree leaf she made me, and I shake my head again, “you are not my Naneth. She is dead.”

She does not understand, she thinks I do not understand her, that she is not clear,  
“I am Calenmiril, wife of Thranduil. I am your mother, Legolas,” she says again, “I have missed you. I have thought of you each day.”

I raise my brow again,  
“You may be Calenmiril,” I say – indeed, I know she is, I have only to look at her face, “you may have birthed me. But you are no mother to me. You – you are no wife to my lord king, to Ada. Missed me? How can you say you missed me, thought of me? You never knew me. Missed Thalion, missed Thorodwar, missed Thirthurun – perhaps. You were mother to them.”

She is shaking her head, and I can feel my love’s disapproval at my back, as poor Lindir is wondering whether to go or stay – his embarrassment fighting a war with his sense which tells him his presence may make the difference between an unpleasant coldness and the speaking of unforgiveable words.

“No,” she says, “I am your mother. I love you. I have always thought of you. I could not – I could not stay. I – tell me of your brothers, your father? Please. Tell me of your life.”

I look at her. I do not know where to start.

I do not know why I should spare the time.

“My brothers? They are in Lorien. They live there with their wives, their children – I suppose their grandchildren if they have them. I know not. I care not. They left the Forest when it became clear Ada would not make them king. I wish the Galadhrim joy of them – my Silvans will have none of them,” I see the surprise in her eyes, and I wonder – were my brothers not always as I have known them? Were they as Caradhil has said, were they affectionate once? I continue, “Ada – my lord king is alone. Alone in his Forest with his elves. Alone to rule, as he has ruled. Loved by his Silvans. Powerful. Wise. Cold. As he has ever been. My lord king is well.”

I stop and I look at her. I have no more words. What else is there to say?

She looks back, and I see she is waiting for something. I do not know what. 

After a moment she makes a movement with her hands,  
“And?” she asks, “and – if – if he knew you were coming – did he send me no message? No token? Will he not come soon? I wait here for him.”

Something in me twists, whether for her waiting, for Ada alone, or for me, not wanted, not missed, valued only for what I might bring – I am not quite sure.

“He sent nothing. He does not speak of you. He has never spoken of you. I have not seen him for – many years. I told him I would sail one day, but – he did not mention you. I said. He is cold, alone, he is the king,” and I look down, “I do not know if he will come. He – he always said he would not. Too – too many Noldor. Besides,” I look up again, “who would he leave to care for his people?”

She looks at me, bewildered,  
“Thranduil, cold – alone – he is not cold to those he loves, he could not be alone. He – the warmest, most loving elf there ever was, the best father – I have thought of him surrounded by the elflings of our sons, what are you saying? He has three – two now – sons. Surely you all love him, you would help him? He – why can he not come?”

Now I am struggling for words,  
“He cannot leave them as king. They – they are not loved. They – are not –“ I am floundering. As ever, my love rescues me,

“Ah, fucks sake, you daft elf, tell her. They cannot rule because they are not wise. They cannot rule because they are cruel. They cannot rule because your Silvans hate them for their treatment of you.”

I turn to him, as shocked as Calenmiril seems to be,  
“What?” I say, “their treatment of me?”

He shrugs, “did you really think they did not know? Your elves love you. They know your bloody brothers never combed you, never cared for you. They know how it was. I do not know how long they have known, but – they know now.” He blows smoke at me, “they know, and they know too who helped you in those years. It is not his charm alone that keeps sodding Caradhil leader in Ithilien. It is his soft heart, whether he likes it or not; his care for you won your people.”

I laugh. I had never thought. 

“Not just that,” I say, “he is a most excellent king.”

“Oh indeed,” my love shrugs again, “he is. But – they would have taken longer to see it, were he not also your protector. However, that is why your bloody brothers will never rule in any Silvan land, which is what you were asked.”

I turn back, and see she is looking at him with an expression I cannot read.

“Master dwarf,” she says, “you know much, but – do you know how to be silent and let two who have much to say speak together?”

“Aye,” he answers, “I do. When both wish it.”

“Walk with me, ion-nin,” she says, turning to me, “walk with me alone, for I have much I would say. Much I would hear. Your life I have heard only from others, and – now we have many years to make up for those lost ones.”

I look at her, I look at her as she dismisses my love, as she claims me as her own, her son, as she speaks of years together, and I think – once I longed for this. Once – once I thought nothing could be more than a parent who cared, who wished to listen.

I meet her eyes, and I shake my head.

“I have not years,” I say, “my love is old. I will follow him soon to the Halls of Aule. And while he lives, I shall not leave his side. I am not one to desert my love, to leave him alone, waiting.”

She – she blinks, and I know were she any other race she would flinch at my words, at the rebuke she must hear in them. 

Now her eyes move from my face. She looks at my necklace, my hair beads, my braids, my bracelet. 

“Dwarven work,” she says, “skilled. I remember Narvi, I remember the smiths of Eregion, this is good work. But at what price, I wonder?”

I raise my brow again,  
“Nothing I would not have given freely for no return,” I look again at my love, and smile into his eyes, “everything I had, everything I am.”

I see the smile in his eyes, but he gestures with his pipe, I should look back at this Lady, I should pay attention to her. But he is my world. That does not change.

I make myself meet her eyes, cold as they are, and I wait for her disapproval, her scorn, her dislike. How not, she is wife to my lord king, what else could I expect from her?

“Then it is true,” she says, wonderingly, “my son has bound himself to a dwarf. What joy you must have brought my Thranduil. But – will you not talk to me? Will you not tell me of yourself, let me tell you of my choices?”

I am silent. 

I want to tell her to go, to leave me as she has always left me, that I need her not, wish for her not, that it is too late.

I want to hear her reasons, to know if there is any possibility I could understand, forgive her.

I want to scream at her, ask her how she could do such a thing, how could she leave me, a tiny elfling as I was, with two brothers who hated me, with a father she hurt so he was dead inside. How could she leave him? How could she hurt him so?

For I find that for all my anger, all my pain, all my hurt, above all it is him I wish to defend. I am surprised. I did not know I cared so. Yet – I have survived, I have my love, I always had Caradhil to care for me. I knew no different. My brothers – for all their resentment, they were old enough to be expected to find their own way. But – Ada. How could she – how could any – leave their love so?

Did she not know how it would hurt him?

I search for words, I wonder how to begin, where to begin.

She sighs again, and looks at us both,  
“You may reject the title, but you are Thranduilion, you are stubborn as he.” I shake my head, not understanding, but, “you will listen no more than your father listened. I tell you, I could not stay in that Forest, watching the darkness creep in where once it was green, I could not stay and watch more sons die in hopeless wars, I could not fight that defence. I had lost too much, too many. I saw Doriath fall, I saw Eregion fall, I saw the darkness take Khazad-dum, I saw so many die. I saw Gil-galad slain, Elendil, Celembrimbor, my parents, my sister, my brother, so many of my people, Oropher and all but one of his sons, so many of our Silvans, I saw your brother, my son die, coughing out his life in blood and agony because we had failed him. We had not taught him enough, we had not saved him that day, we had not had the wit to leave him in safety. So many deaths.” 

She passes a hand over her brow, and I see she trembles, “and you, you who have fought in battles, you who think yourself brave – how many of those you care for have you seen die? In what kind of war – death in victory is a different thing indeed from bitter defeated death, death in betrayal, death in spite of allies for their aid comes not. What do you know of grief?”

I wait to see if she has finished.

“Lady,” I begin, and I see the coldness hurts her, but what else can I call her? “all you say is true. I – for myself – how can I say I missed you, when I knew you not? I wondered. No more. But – my lord king – was all that not as true for him? Why – why did you not stay with him? Or – or bring him away with you? Why leave him? If he – he was your love, how could you? If – if it was I – as I was told – so often – why did you not both leave me – there were Silvans enough to love me. I – I do not know how you could leave him so.”

Then she looks at me, and I see a new shock in her face, I wonder what more there can be as she whispers,

“Dear Elbereth, you do not know. And if you do not – who does? Did he – did he tell no-one? I did not leave him. I knew not what I did those last months. I – I do not remember any of your babyhood – I – I was in a mist – a fog – a –“ she stutters, and I say without knowing I will,

“a greyness, all surrounding, nothing penetrates it but his name, nothing but the thought of him, nothing matters else – and you will never see him again, there is no hope, nothing, nowhere, he is gone and all is over.” And our eyes meet at last in understanding, for grief for one loved and lost – grief is grief, fading is fading. Her grief for my brother, her grief for her firstborn, so harshly rekindled by my birth – my grief when I thought my love cared not for me, when I felt alone, abandoned, when I thought I would never see him, hold him again – they are in our hearts the same grief. Save that I was lucky, I was mistaken. My love came back to me. My love was not dead – and I hide from the thought that one day, soon, my love will die.

She nods, and speaks once more, a catch in her breath,  
“and I thought – if I thought – I thought I would be with my Thalion once more when I had faded. But – my love, my Thranduil – he could not watch me. He – he had me brought here. Not – not against my will – but – without my understanding – I did not know. I knew only grief. He – he sent a letter with me, begging me to understand – to wait – that he would come – when he could – when he could leave our people. I – I would show it you – but – it perished long ago. So long it has been.”

I look at her, and realise – all the days I can remember – she has waited. I could not wait so – I could barely withstand the absence of my love for a few months – how can she do this? How is it that both my parents are so strong, and I am not?

“And now – now you say he will not come. He has none to leave to rule. Not one of you will help him. And – I cannot fade here. It has been too long. I have not the sharpness of loss, I have not the will. And you will leave. And I will be alone again. As he is alone. Oh my love, my Thranduil, my warrior, my king, my lord.”

She has turned away now, and I do not know what to say. I have no words in the face of this grief. I did not know. 

I stand silently, I do not know what I am waiting for, I do not know what I expect to happen, to solve this.

Poor Lindir is wishing himself anywhere but here, desperately looking away.

When he speaks, I wonder how I could have forgotten who would rescue me. Who always rescues me.

“Fucking bloody stupid elves,” he says, and I admit he may have a point, “do none of your sodding family ever speak to each other, my daft one?”

I look at him, and see he is using anger to hide any other feelings,  
“Apparently not,” I answer, “but – why do you care, Gimli-nin?”

“Why do I care? Why do I fucking – because I too have loved, as you know, because I – oh you daft sodding creature – because both your proud, foolish parents remind me too much of you.”

I am insulted, I open my mouth to protest, but,  
“Oh don’t look so like a fish. Think. Had bloody Caradhil put you on a ship, not brought you to Gondor, had my cousin not persuaded Elessar to have you guided to my room – would you have come to me? Spoken to me of love? Bloody Sindar, you are all the same, it seems.”

Lindir is now biting his lip with stifled laughter – so I suppose someone’s day has improved.

“And you?” I ask, “had I not come to Gondor, had I not been on your balcony, had I not come back to apologise – stubborn dwarf, had I not knelt to you and asked for your hands in my hair – how long would it have taken you to speak?” I pause, “what is your excuse? Your parents gave you a much better example.”

He shrugs,  
“We are not talking of my parents. What are you going to do about yours?”

I am lost for words. 

As she turns and looks at him, I see that – Calenmiril – is also.

“What business is it of yours, dwarf?” she asks, and I can see how my lord king could love her so. She looks at me, and the coldness in her eyes is like to his, “it clearly is no concern of – your beloved’s.”

And I realise that she has heard my words, believed them, taken them to heart. She will not claim me as her son again.

She will not even say my name.

She walks away.

Lindir leaves us also.

And I realise, I have done it again. I have lashed out in rage, I have spoken coldly, cruelly, I have earned every letter of the title Thranduilion. I have let all my resentment, all my hurt out in anger, and I have not asked for what I really want, what I need, I have not asked for love.

It seems, I think, that I do not learn.

I have wasted that one chance. That one chance I was given. She will not come back now, she will now never touch my ears, never hold me, never.

I am a fool.

I clench my fists, I will not allow my hands to creep to my ears, to touch myself for comfort as the lonely elfling I once was did, so often, so many years ago. I swallow, I blink, I will not cry. I have cried enough, long ago, I cried ten thousand times more tears than either of my parents ever spent on me. 

I do not need them. 

Not anymore.

I wonder if all elves are like me. I suppose not, other elves have happy families, and, indeed, other dwarves do not – just because my love had two wonderful parents – they are not all like that. 

I look at him, and I realise he does not understand, he is not impressed that I should act so. And, for a moment, I would change him for one who might, one who might remember those years, those long years of neglect, one who might take my part against my parents, instead of always urging me to see their story too. Just because your parents loved you, I think, does not mean that mine deserve the love you gave yours.

There is silence between us. 

But – however much I resent his disapproval, I cannot change my heart. I cannot help but look to him for comfort. Oh my warrior, my love, you are my world.

I sit beside him again, I curl against him, my head on his chest, his arm round me as he strokes my hair and I play idly with the braids in his beard.

“I mean it,” he says, quietly, “you should try. You would feel better for it. It is not your fault they are apart, but if you do not try you will be thinking it is and worrying and fretting. I know you. You know I am right. You know you are skilled at apologising, at making amends, my dear love – can you not help them?”

I shrug. I do not see how, and I do not in truth see why I should bother. Let my brothers look to this – they knew them both, why can they not speak to my lord king? 

Let Thorodwar, let Thirthurun speak to Thranduil – and once again, the likeness of the names hurts me – why, I wonder, why could you not have found me a name to echo yours? Are there not words enough with letters like to one or other of your names that I could have felt acknowledged, loved? Why give those two such an easy way to hurt me, over and over?

Why do I still care?

I need not. I have my love, my warrior, my world, here, beside me. I need not my birth-parents, little parenting as either of them ever gave. 

But – how did she know where to find me? More importantly, why was he not surprised, not taken aback by her appearance? And then I understand, and sitting up, I am angry, I push at him,

“You knew, Gimli-nin, you knew. You plotted, you went behind my back. How could you? Why? Do you not think if I wanted to find her I would have? I am not a child, you do not always know better than me.”

He sighs, holding up his hands,  
“Yes. I did. I am sorry. My Lady – my Lady told me she was here, that you could meet her. It never really occurred to me you would not want to. I – I only wanted to heal your poor heart, my love.”

My eyes drop, as my anger leaves, and I throw myself into his arms again,  
“But – you did. When you made me yours, when you held me every night, when you loved me, when you spoke words of love to me, when you kept me at your side all these years. No-one else has ever mattered since I had you.”

And I reach up to kiss him, and oh, it is still as sweet as ever, and I can feel myself melting into him as I always did. I would keep on, I would have him kiss me for hours, it matters not to me that kissing is all there is, it is enough, it is enough for me to be held, for the world to retreat as it always did, for nothing to matter but him, but what he is doing, to be loved so. But – after a time I know I must stop, I must not seem to ask for what he can no longer give, so I pull back, and rest my head on his chest again, enjoying his hands in my hair, waiting for I know he is trying to find words.

“Oh my poor elf,” he says, “I love you so. But – think about it. Think about your parents. They loved each other once, they still do. And they are apart. I – I never thought I would see the day, but – I ache for them. I do not look forward to being without you, and I know you will put nothing, no-one, no duty, no pain, before finding me again. I ache for them both, proud and stubborn as they are. But – it is for you to decide if there is anything you can do. Just, stay here now. I love you, I want your arms around me.”

He leaves it there, and I realise he is tired again. He must be to speak so long without swearing. Oh my warrior, how you are changed. You who are still my world, you who I trust.

But – even if he is right – what can I do?

 

 

I think. I think and I think. 

All that night, while my love sleeps, I think.

In the morning, I have still no clear idea, but I ask him to come with me to speak to the other elves. He is tired again. He does not wish to move. I say I will stay with him.

“Oh, fucks sake, daft sodding elf, go. I will be here when you return.”

I wonder. I am not sure.

“No,” I say, “I will not leave you. I – I am sure you will be here if I did – but – I cannot. I have no reason to go, it was but a whim.” I fold against him, and add, “I would rather be at your side, than anywhere else, you know this. For you are my world.”

It is a truth I do not speak clearly often. But I think he knows. And by the way his arm wraps round me, he is not sorry I stay.

“Love you, my daft sodding elf,” he says, after a long while of silence.

“I love you too,” I answer, and I turn to look at him. Something in his face frightens me, and I clutch on to him, as needy as I have ever been.

“Stay,” he says, and now I am even more afraid. “Tell me – tell me it has been a good life?”

“You know,” I say, “you know. I would not have a thing different. Save – save now. Now I would have longer.” 

“Tell me,” he says again, his hands running over my hair, touching my braids, my beads he gifted me, and I find I can speak, the words can flow, for once in my life I am as word-clever as he, as word-skilled as any elf should be. I tell him, I tell him of our love, of our story, of how we hated, mistrusted, fought, argued, loved, misunderstood, hurt, ached, longed – and loved. I tell him of all those years of love. Of our journeys, of our lands, our realms, of our peoples, of how they changed, changed partly by our love. As I speak I put on my jewels, those many jewels he gifted me, not just the necklace and bracelet I always wear, but the many others he made over the years. As he watches, as he listens, I put on the other bracelets, the necklaces, the anklets, the jewelled belt, I hand him the hairpieces, and turn so he can fit them around my braids. I put on the ear-cuffs, that I brought to Valinor, even though I doubted I could ever wear them in a land of elves. And by his eyes, I know he likes to see me in them once more. I tell him of the times he made them, of how he gifted each piece to me, of what every one meant. I tell him of all the loving we had – I recall words, actions, kisses, sighs, vows. Above all, vows. I remind him of all he has achieved, of all he is honoured for, his battle skill, his craft, the gates of the city of Minas Tirith, of the caves, the glittering caves, their beauty, the open-handedness of those who live there, the alliances, the peace, the regard his people are held in because of him. And I remind him – I will find him. I will come. I swear it. Whatever it takes, I will find you, my dearest, my only, my love, and I whisper again his true-name that will bring me to him.

All the time, my hands are busy in his beard, in his hair, combing him, braiding him, and his eyes watch me, the love in them as strong as ever. 

“I love you,” he says again. And I wait for the epithet, but it does not come.

I look at him, I press myself against him.

And I know it never will again.

I will never be his daft sodding elf again.

Not in this world.

 

 

There are no words in me. 

My song is wordless, desolate.

I think I am broken.

I cling to him, and I cannot let go.

Time passes.

This is not what I should be doing. I know. Somewhere inside, I know I should not be lying here, clutching him, grieving, I should be making things right, I should be setting all in order, I should be preparing to follow him.

I cannot. I cannot move. I cannot leave him. He told me to stay with him.

I am broken and lost without him.

Time passes.

There are others around me now. I do not know them. I do not know why they are here. I do not want them.

They try to make me leave him, and I scream.

I said I would stay with him. 

There is much chatter, I do not listen. I will not let go of him. 

I hear the whispers I have spent so many years not listening to – that I am fey, I am no true elf, I am touched with some stain, some madness to love a dwarf so, to wear such jewels, to decorate my ears. And somewhere inside I hear his voice laughing, as he always laughed, telling me I am the most proper, true elf there ever was, the best lover, the most beautiful, most fittingly bedecked, and reminding me that at least they cannot see the ink engraved on my chest, his name over my heart.

I want him.

I need him so.

I do not know how to find him again, only that I must. Somehow, I must.

But I feel weak, I do not know where to begin.

My song is lost.

The greyness is round me again, as once before, but this time it is not gradual, not dimming slowly, this time it has settled on me, and I cannot see or hear properly, I cannot hear the song of the world around me. I have no song. 

My heart is lonely, forsaken.

Is this what it is to be mortal? 

Suddenly a voice cuts through,  
“Fool of an elf. He cannot stay here. He must be housed fittingly. And then you can stay with him.”

I look up, I see through my tears, through the mist, Mithrandir. And I know he is right. But I cannot think. He sees this. He kneels beside me,

“Legolas, you must get up. You have been here too long like this. Hours. It may be days. You cannot carry him alone. Let Lindir – his friend – let Lindir and another take him. There is a cave. You can be with him there. Return him to the stone.”

I nod. I understand what he says. 

But I cannot let go of my love.

Someone takes my hands, forces them away. I am screaming again. They shall not take me from him. 

He asked me to stay with him.

I am fighting them, they shall not take me from him. But I am weak, I am not myself, I cannot win this fight. I hear myself screaming, and feel my tunic rip as I twist and turn, needing to find my way back to him.

There is an intake of breath from all those around me, the hands drop away, and I realise they all can see his inking. His name on me. Not his true-name, that can never be written, but his use-name, over my heart, as I have carried it so long.

These elves are shocked. They do not know what to do, what to say. Even Mithrandir is silenced, I notice through the fog. 

I do not care. I must be with him, and I turn to find my way back to him, when there is suddenly a gentle arm around my shoulder. Someone speaks to me, not in Westron, not in Sindar, not in Quenya, but in my own tongue, in Silvan – Silvan as I have not heard these many years. Silvan we have not used even in the Forest for long years. The Silvan that even Caradhil rarely uses or allows for fear of being thought too wild. And the shock makes me listen as she says,

“Come, it is alright. We are going with him. You will be with him soon. Come. He needs to be in the stone. Come. You wear his jewels, jewels made with skill such as Narvi had of old, you are marked as his elf, you know what is necessary for his honour, for the honour of one of the line of Durin. You must come. You know this, little leaf, come now.”

And I go.

I trust her. 

I do not know who she is, or why she speaks my language or how she knows of Narvi, of Durin and the ways of dwarves or why she calls me little leaf or why she strokes my ears so firmly, so gently as she holds me to her, but I trust her voice. Something deep within me tells me to trust this voice, this hand, that this means safety, means comfort.

Stumbling, I follow them as they carry him, and then they take him inside somewhere, and I must go. But – someone is speaking to me again, holding me back, and I do not understand, I must be with him, I am screaming again. 

He said to stay with him.

The voice is back,  
“Little leaf,” she says, “it is alright. They are laying him down, Lindir will come and take you to him in a moment. It is alright. No-one is trying to stop you from being with him. He is your love. It is your right to follow him.”

And I am glad there is one Silvan here who understands, as it seems these Noldor do not.

Suddenly, it registers with me who she must be. Not a Silvan. Sindar. I understand why she calls me little leaf, and I wonder if she did before. If Ada did too, once, long ago. If perhaps my name was not a rejection, but something more to them. If they did show love for me, once. If they could have been the loving parents I so longed for, had things been different in the wider world. I remember I had something I needed to do, to say. I must. Before I go to find my love, I must do this. He will be cross if I have not. 

I look at her, I almost think I could come to like her – if I had time.

“There is a boat,” I say, “my boat. Caradhil built it, it is well made. He is Silvan. You can trust him. Take it. Go. Please. Go back. Elves can sail east too. If I can bring a dwarf here, you can do this. Do not leave Ada alone any longer. Please, Calenmiril, do this. He aches for you. He – there is no way of calling him. You must go. If you love him.”

“Perhaps,” she says, “but – he told me to wait here. Thranduilion, could you ever go against your love’s wishes?”

I look down, demurely, the picture of Sindar innocence,  
“No, wife of Thranduil, I could not,” I say, and then I lick my lower lip, and I look up, tilting my head, raising one brow, as I have seen Caradhil’s daughter look at him so often, a picture of Silvan mischief, “except – when he was wrong.”

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the same look in them. Yes, I think, I could have liked you. I could have understood you, loved you. If we had had time.

We are elves – yet – we have waited too long.

I have no more time.

I do not know if she will listen, but I have tried.

Lindir comes, he takes my hand and leads me in to this cave. 

“I hate caves,” I say, “I always have. Yet – I grew up in one, I fell in love in another, I spent half our life together in a third, and now – now I shall die in this.” And then I shall spend eternity in another, I suppose, for surely the Halls of Aule must be a cave if his children are to be at peace?

He smiles, and pats my hand,  
“I do not think you truly hate anywhere that your lord is,” he says, and I wonder how he became so fast acquainted with the truth of my life.

I see my love and I forget all else. I am with him again, and I can hold him, I can bury myself in him, and I know they will not come to part us now.

Now I can follow him.

I hear Lindir go, I hear the whole party start away.

Now, in the silence, I can say my love’s true-name. And with the sound on my lips and in my ears, with his body in my arms, his hair mixed with mine, I can let myself leave and follow him.

Wherever he is, I will find him.

My fea is already there.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I originally wrote this thinking I wouldn't post it until I had written all I could think of before it. but - then I realised that might never happen. so I posted this now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Setting Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843513) by [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil)




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